Vampirus Non Domesticus
by The Cat's Whiskers
Summary: Sequel to The Vampire In My Living Room. The Cup of Perpetual Torment has been won and drunk from by the other Vampire With A Soul. But now both Angel and Spike are sunk in brooding depression, and what's our favourite Watcher, stuck in the middle, suppos
1. The Unnatural Habitat

Disclaimer: Don't own, etc

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to _**_The Vampire in My Living Room_**_. Occurs around from _**_You're Welcome _**_to _**_Why We Fight, _**_but not down to the minute… Wherein things go from bad to worse, which doesn't really surprise us, does it? Rating 15. _

**VAMPIRUS (NON) DOMESTICUS**

**Chapter 1 – The Unnatural Habitat**

After watching Spike ignore _Passions_ and fiddle aimlessly with a variety of detailed and rather dry esoteric tomes no less than four times in the space of fifteen minutes, it finally dawned on Wesley that the undead's very own Sid Vicious was actually _embarrassed_.

_As well he should be_, Wesley thought uncharitably.

Spike being made unexpectedly corporeal had thrown everyone for a loop, but it had also made Wesley aware of his friends' general attitude towards the blond vampire. While Spike was insubstantial, Angel, Gunn, Fred and Lorne had seemed to be under the impression that he did nothing _else_ but hang around Wolfram & Hart twiddling his ghostly thumbs waiting for them to show up so he could bug them.

Wesley, not wanting to get 'into it' with Angel, had been carefully never disabused them of this notion. Lindsay MacDonald getting sucked through a portal into the personal presence of the senior partners was deeply satisfying, but though Spike was solid now, Angel and the others seemed not to have given thought to what the vampire's living arrangements were since the apartment that Lindsay had provided the blond vampire with in his guise of "Doyle" had been as phoney as everything else.

Lindsey MacDonald had used a memory spell on the owner/landlord to make him forget the basement apart was there, but that had collapsed with the rest of Eve and MacDonald's con, something the others hadn't even noticed. In the event, Spike had come into Wesley's apartment, announced he'd got his own place and gone again in as many seconds. Later, when the whole Lindsay-Eve scheme had blown up, Spike had simply walked back in one night, clearly in full-on nothing-ever-happened mode, acting as if he'd never left.

Wesley had indulged in a few snide comments, but left it at that. For all his abrasive character, Spike had been a good guy. Lindsay MacDonald's machinations as the fake Doyle with Eve's help couldn't take away from the fact that Spike had risked himself to help people, including saving Angel from that hallucination-causing parasite, in the belief that "Doyle" was a genuine representative of the Powers That Be, to the extent of ending up being tortured by the mentally unstable Slayer, Dana Parvati…though when it came to a serious lack of mental good health and a tendency towards psychotic instability, Wesley had to acknowledge that no member of either Sunnydale's Scooby Gang nor LA's Team Angel was in any position to cast the first stone…_Myself included_…

Wesley narrowed his eyes, unaware he was imitating the way Spike had looked at him in _Ye Olde Britannia _the night he had purchased the Orb of Thessaly. Never that stocky to begin with, Spike definitely was thinner and paler than he had been. Many people equated 'strength' and 'power' with being built like Arnold Schwarzneggar, but that was a foolish mistake to make. Spike actually had a lithe, whipcord musculature that his height and more slender build tended to hide, but he couldn't afford to lose much if any weight without appearing haggard. Those high cheekbones, which gave Spike's face that sensuous but subtly cruel cast women seemed to find so attractive, now served to accentuate the fact that he looked perilously close to _gaunt_. Wesley watched as Spike tapped his long fingers on the spine of _Munschausen's Complete Ghost Roads,_ noting how his usually immaculate red-tipped black nail polish was chipped, as if the vampire had been biting his fingernails.

Was Spike _nervous_ rather than _embarrassed_? It was entirely possible that the vampire had done something to piss off the wrong creature. While not the dullest knife in the drawer, Spike was also not the sharpest by any means. It wasn't that Spike was stupid, far from it, he was sharply witty and possessed of quick intelligence, but he was rash, following the dictates of his emotions rather than logic. In human terms, Spike was ruled by his heart rather than his head and because of that he tended to be impulsive and impatient, leaping before he looked.

Buffy still had no idea of Spike's resurrection, as Andrew Wells had promised, but before the Trainee Watcher had taken Dana Parvati back to Sunnydale following the confrontation with Angel and Wesley on the waterfront, he had phoned the direct line to Wesley's office and 'suggested' that Wesley acquaint himself with the details of Buffy's battle to defeat the First Evil, which had culminated in Spike's self-sacrifice to close the Hellmouth.

One of the changes instituted by Buffy and Giles for the new Watchers Council was creating free web access to the digitalized Watcher Diaries instead of hiding them away in vaults, a task Buffy gave to the new Slayers to teach them patience. Giles had put his money where his mouth was and contributed his own Diaries first to Willow the Webmistress. The intimate details of many generations of individual Watchers' deepest feelings made for often uncomfortable reading, especially those that been Watcher to – and outlived – a Slayer, but the number of hits the website received daily proved just how widespread interest was, even though some of the viewers were undoubtedly bad guys whilst others didn't believe the diaries were real.

Wesley had gone and read through the events of those momentous weeks and came way amazed anew at the extraordinary strength not just of Buffy Summers, but of her Scooby Gang…which at the time had included the grim-faced vampire currently moping in his apartment, creating about him all the cheer of a wet weekend in Wigan.

Wesley had known instantly when he came across the passage Andrew was hinting about. Never one whose vices included loving the sound of his own voice, Spike usually limited himself to pithy aphorisms, so the entry was notable for being about the most Spike had ever spoken at one time. By his own admission, the blond killer had never been known for a towering intellect and now Wesley recalled the words as clearly as he had read them on the monitor:

…_to which Spike's response was and I have tried to write it verbatim, since I admit myself to be utterly astounded at the depth of character shown by this sarcastic coerced Scooby whom we all treat with far less charity than we should, along with a foolish underestimation of his capabilities – Rupert Giles:_

"_I've been alive a bit longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that. I've seen things you couldn't imagine, and done things I'd prefer you didn't. I don't exactly have a reputation for being a thinker; I follow my blood, which does not always rush in the direction of my head. So I've made a lot of mistakes. A lot of wrong bloody calls…" _

Therein lay the rub. When "Doyle" had approached him, Spike had jumped in with both feet to be the PTB's Champion of Light, following 'his blood' without once pausing to think that _maybe_ there was something odd about the PTBs circumventing Angel and his crew whom they had worked through for the past near half-decade? Had Spike made some sort of grand gesture or played hardball in the belief that he had the Powers That Be backing him, and was now facing up to the fact that _Terra firma_ had turned into quicksand under him? It was just the sort of impetuous thing he would do.

" 'm going out for dinner, don't wait up." Spike suddenly surged up from the couch, his lips a thin line, sweeping out before Wesley could speak, and leaving the former Watcher staring thoughtfully after him.

_Continued in Chapter 2…_


	2. Dinner Isn't Served

Disclaimer: Don't own, etc

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to _**_The Vampire in My Living Room_**_. Occurs around from _**_You're Welcome _**_to _**_Why We Fight, _**_but not down to the minute… Wherein things go from bad to worse, which doesn't really surprise us, does it? Rating T- M. _

**VAMPIRUS (NON) DOMESTICUS**

**Chapter 2 – Dinner Isn't Served**

Wesley carefully skirted the garbage on the sidewalk as he made his way back to the 'Cuda, and though this was a reasonably "safe" LA neighbourhood, he never relaxed his vigilance as he walked along with seeming nonchalance. Five years at Angel's side and his own polished paranoia meant that Wesley was acutely attuned to the world around him. He was ready for anything from vampire and/or demon attack through pickpockets and prostitutes to gangs and suspicious police officers or even harmless-looking little old ladies stopping to ask him the time.

Traversing the crosswalk, Wesley became more alert, his muscles flexing and the various weapons secreted on his person instantly at hand. There was a health clinic that regularly ran blood donor drives on this block, which meant that vampire presences were higher than normal, the area drawing the undead who were too lazy, too cowardly or too incompetent to catch live human prey. He could see the clinic, set back in shadow on its lot, deserted at this late hour –

Wait. Wesley craned his head as he caught a flash of yellow. Looking closer he saw the cut-through at the back of the clinic where it backed onto the businesses that lined the sidewalk of the next block. A number of people, at this distance more or less just outlined bipedal shapes, were grouped near the back entrance of the clinic. The group shifted slightly and once again one of them moved into the pool of light projected by an overhead streetlight, which reflected off an unmistakable head of harsh, chemically produced bright blond hair.

A very large figure was standing opposite the vampire, even at this distance his stance clearly aggressive. A few weeks had passed – full of deeply disturbing events - since the night of Spike's precipitous exit from Wesley's apartment. The English vampire wasn't gaining either weight or colour, indeed was subtly but perceptibly becoming more and more tense as Wesley surreptitiously observed him, as if beating Angel to the Cup of Perpetual Torment, fake though it had proven to be, had sent the peroxide blond into a downward spiral of despair instead of, as you would imagine, raising his game once he had shown that he could best Angel in a literal fight, something he had never before accomplished.

The Englishman's booted feet made no sound as he drifted closer with a stealth even Angel would have envied and few people realised the usually somewhat 'bumbling' man possessed. Wesley was used to being what others expected him to be. Roger Wyndham-Pryce had expected a stammering disappointment, and got exactly that; Faith had expected an uptight prissy Brit Watcher, and got her expectations fulfilled; Angel had originally expected a buffoonish but academically brilliant male version of Willow and again had got what he anticipated. Clinging to the shadows like a lover, Wesley approached the group as if hunting a nervous deer – slowly, silently and downwind.

Spike faced off against the huge man and sighed theatrically even as he mentally exhausted every swearword he knew in every language he spoke. To buy himself precious seconds he reached into his duster pocket, pulled out a packet of Marlboros, extracted one and lit it with his trusty silver metal lighter, before dropping lighter and packet into his pocket and reaching up to remove the cigarette after taking a deep drag. "You're beginning to annoy me, Henrik."

Henrik's booze-bloated face twisted into a nasty grin. A natural thug, he had the vampire over a barrel and he knew it. The punk vampire might be de-chipped but was now carrying around a soul. He had been a Champion of the Light for that blonde Slayer whore back in Sunnydale, which meant that snacking on live people was a big no-no; like that Irish poof who'd got his soul first, Spike was now reduced to pig's blood or knocking off blood banks.

Henrik also had a huge advantage in that he could 'pass' for fully human unless you looked too closely at his skin and realised the mottled orange wasn't badly applied fake tan; besides the bad skin superhuman strength was the hidden legacy his other-dimensional heritage gave him, and it had proved to be a hugely advantageous secret weapon. Now he laughed coarsely in the vampire's face and his cronies edged closer forming a loose semi-circle, mimicking his laughter nervously in the presence of the infamous Spike. More obviously non-human but just as vicious as their leader they, in common with most other-dimensional beings, despised vampires as inferior beings because the undead were dependent on humans to survive.

"Cut the attitude, _Willie_." Henrik jeered, not understanding the flare in Spike's eyes but enjoying the way the diminutive seemed to disturb the vampire. "We all know what you need, and don't worry, I'll let you have some of the ruby red…if you ask prettily enough." Henrik was going to enjoy making the vampire beg…he might even let the blond drink a few sips before he dusted him. "Here –" Henrik casually sliced open his own wrist and let a few drops spatter down to the earth, grinning inside when he saw the flicker of hunger the vampire's pale blue eyes were momentarily unable to hide, "- you can suck my wrist…on your knees where you belong." His gang tittered at the crude double entendre.

Spike hadn't eaten in a week; he had been allergic to pork as a human, and his vampiric self didn't deal all that well with pig's blood. He'd wiped the floor with Henrik on a mission for "Doyle" but had made the mistake of sparing the thug's life, which he was now paying for. Henrik's revenge-fuelled investigation revealed Spike's identity as the _other_ vampire with a soul, sidekick to that pathetic poor-me do-gooder Angel. Once "Doyle" had been spectacularly exposed as a fake, Spike no longer had the Powers That Be to invoke; Henrik had staked out the blood banks and clinics, causing the blond vampire to slip away to avoid a confrontation, but Spike had seen the apparently deserted clinic and the smell of the blood had been too much to resist. Henrik and his crew had appeared from the shadows like wraiths and blocked Spike's path and the punk vampire knew this was the showdown he'd sought to avoid.

He couldn't back down, for not only would he be unlikely to escape Henrik alive, but the destruction of his ferocious reputation would have every dime-a-dozen glory hound descending on LA like a swarm of locusts to kill him slowly and agonisingly. However, nor could he follow his instincts and sink his fangs into Henrik's neck. Not only was his soul a pitiless conscience over his past crimes, he was still a Champion of the Light and any chance of redemption would be out of the window and way down the block if he started taking people out just because they were assholes.

For a charged moment, the tension cloyed the air as Henrik and the narrow-eyed vampire faced each other.

"Spike!"

Everyone including Henrik, though he quickly covered it, flinched at the harsh, unexpected voice and all heads turned to the newcomer. A tall, slender man with dark brown hair and smoke-grey eyes stood in the middle of the alley, looking totally unconcerned about the large demon two feet to his right. The Ysak demon didn't look at Henrik, since it should have heard Wesley coming a good five minutes ago.

Raising his arm up and looking pointedly at his watch, Wesley told Spike crisply, "You can eat in a bit, we're _working_, remember?"

Spike knew they were doing no such thing, but he'd always been quick on the uptake and was helped along by a healthy dose of strong survival instinct. "I was just –"

"I _said_ you can eat him _later_." Wesley's tone took on an edge.

Henrik gave a jeering laugh as he looked this second English interloper up and down contemptuously. "Nice try, fag-boy, but we know who blondie here _is_. Little Spike's been deballed – he's harmless."

"Oh, hardly." Wesley commented. "Though you're obviously stupid enough to think so." His casual tone meant the insult didn't register for a moment.

Henrik's face twisted into something even more ugly. "He's got a _soul._"

Wesley raised his head slightly and locked eyes with Henrik as simultaneously his right wrist flexed minutely and there was a barely audible _whish-shluck!_ Wesley drew his arm back, pulling out the spring-loaded collapsible sword strapped to his arm from the Ysak demon's corpse, which slowly toppled over and hit the ground with a _thunk_.

Wesley's voice was whisper-soft, yet carried clear and sharp as cut glass. "_So do I_."

Seizing the moment, Spike stepped back, making neither comment nor gesture but his body language managing to convey that it was obedience to Wesley as opposed to any trepidation regarding Henrik that prevented him simply lunging forward and ripping out the big jerk's throat. He allowed his demon-eyes to glow sulphuric yellow for a minute and felt savage satisfaction as Henrik visibly swallowed. Showing no fear at making such a vulnerable action, Wesley smoothly stepped forward and bent down, wiping the Ysak's gore from his blade on the dead demon's own torso before straightening up, turning his back and simply walking away as if completely confident of Spike following.

The blond vampire didn't so much as smirk but just did exactly that, leaving behind them a very shaken and uncertain group. What sweat glands Henrik had were working overtime and his mouth was suddenly very dry. Spike was obviously nowhere near as harmless as he appeared…the casual indifference with which that human English dude had killed Iskka had been chilling. "Let's go!" He barked, mentally deciding that he was overdue to visit his cousin Dagan in the Big Apple, far away from a certain peroxide blond vampire_…_ and his clearly psychopathic human buddy.

In complete silence Spike climbed in the 'Cuda and Wesley drove back to his apartment. Once inside the blond walked straight over to the couch and turned on the TV, his black duster wrapped around him tightly, plonking himself down and staring rigidly at the TV screen.

Going into the kitchen, Wesley put the kettle on, since there were times when only a mug of hot tea would suffice, then sat at the breakfast bar ostensibly with the folded paper in front of him, in actual fact frantically trying to work out what to do.

Spike was watching the television with a silent, manic intensity normally only seen in someone trying to diffuse a bomb, metaphoric DANGER! KEEP OUT! signs all round him. Wesley licked his lips as he stared unseeing at the newsprint. They were at a critical juncture, what was known as a cusp. A line from one of those 1970s Ray Harryhausen Sinbad films popped into his head: " '…_unless the actions of mortal man shall tip the scales one way or the other…_'"

The next thirty seconds were of world-shattering importance, Spike's future and Wesley's chances of surviving longer than the next ten minutes would wax or wane depending on the ex-Watcher's ability to choose the right words to prevent Spike from going off at the deep end. The Powers were largely responsible for this…_Give me a clue here!_ he roared the words mentally even as his features remained impassive. What could he do?

He blinked and the tiny print in the bottom right hand corner suddenly seemed to enlarge as it sprang into focus: Thought For Today, taken from Hebrews Chapter 11 Verse 1. _What..?_

'_Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for, the evident demonstration of realities though not beheld.'_

As sharp as steel and as clear as polished glass, it was there in front of Wesley, laid out in 24 size font, all annotated and itemized and colour-coded. His worrying exchange with Angel shortly before his cyborg "father" turned up replayed with digital clarity in Wesley's mind:

"_Your heart's not in the work. You've lost hope that the work has meaning." Wesley had prodded gently. "It's lost meaning for _**_you_**_. Spike says you no longer believe in the Shanshu Prophecy?" _

"_Of course not. The prophecy is nonsense, you know that, after everything we've seen…"the father will kill the son"…"_

"_What are you talking about?" It had taken all Wesley's control to act as if he had no idea what Angel meant, though memories of his flight with the baby Connor and Holtz taking the boy roared through his head._

"_We're getting the work done. As long as I keep doing what I do, it doesn't matter if I believe in the Shanshu or any other prophecy." The undertone of bitterness in the dark vampire's tone had been unmistakable._

"_I'm sorry Angel, but nothing matters more. Hope – it's the only that will sustain you…and keep you from ending up like Number Five…"_

Angel's melancholia went much deeper than uncertainty over running Wolfram & Hart. The dark vampire was undergoing a crisis of faith far more dangerous than the machinations of Eve, Lindsay and the worst that the senior partners could throw at them. When he had left Buffy for LA and learned of the Shanshu prophecy, family life had been an abstract concept for the vampire with a soul, and he hadn't really missed what he'd never had, but Connor had been the embodiment of the family Angel craved, the child he and Buffy were unable to have.

_The father will kill the son_. Sat at the breakfast bar, Wesley cursed the ambiguity of the Shanshu prophecy and the Sahjahn-corrupted Niiahzian Scrolls. He had no regrets over taking Connor away, despite how badly it had turned out; he had been trying to protect both Connor and Angel. Angel had actually killed Connor in a _symbolic _way, by giving up his son. Angel had sacrificed the opportunity to build a life with Connor for the boy's sake. Instead of a tormented psychopath, Connor was now a happy, normal teenager completely unaware that his real parents were vampires.

But Angel's grief for his lost child was just as real and valid as if Connor had literally died, and had precipitated a bitter resentment of what Angel perceived to be the whims of the Powers That Be; he felt the loss of Connor far more terribly precisely because the child of two vampires was a miracle beyond comprehension in the first place. Angel was going through the motions, but his heart wasn't in it –

_And Spike is in exactly the same place, psychologically speaking_. Wesley risked a glance at the stiff posture of the English vampire. His innate knowledge of Angel's thinking and – despite their enmity – knowledge of how often Angel knew what he was talking about, had enabled Spike to put into words Angel's own loss of hope:

"_It's a bunch of nonsense, a bedtime story to get vampires to play nice." Spike said smugly as Wesley tried to concentrate on the pictograms that would enable them to battle the heart-stealing demon Aztec._

"_Says you." Wesley retorted._

"_Says _**_Angel_._" _**_Spike grinned as Wesley raised his head sharply. "Yeah - tall dark and dreary told me he doesn't believe in the Shanshu prophecy, said it's a suckers game."_

Angel was still leading in their attempts to fight the good fight, but he did so because he thought that it was merely right to help innocent people where you could, he no longer believed in any higher purpose to what he was doing, and now neither did Spike. The blond vampire, more than any other of his kind including Angel, responded to the dictates of his heart, and right now Spike was angry, upset and humiliated.

Again into Wesley's head popped the entry in Giles' diary that Andrew had encouraged him to read on the web. At the time he had focussed Spike's self-admission of following 'his blood' rather than what his rational side was advising, but Wesley suddenly realised he could remember what Spike had gone on to say to Buffy after admitting that he had made 'a lot of mistakes':

"_A lot of mistakes. A lot of wrong bloody calls. A hundred plus years, only one thing I've ever been sure of. You. I'm not asking you for anything. When I tell you that I love you, it's not because I want you, or 'cause I can't have you – it's got nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your strength, and your kindness, I've seen the best and the worst of you, and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You are a hell of a woman. You're the one, Buffy." _

He had gained a soul for love of the Slayer, and sacrificed his life willingly for that love in order to save the world, yet in full expectation of receiving absolutely no reward –unless you counted just ending up very painfully dead. Yet now Spike was unexpectedly 'alive' - but abandoned.

Their mutual souls, which should have been a common bond between Angel and Spike, instead drove them further apart. Returning after his few days of leave Wesley had walked into Wolfram & Hart and practically been whacked upside the head with the tension emanating from the inner circle of Team Angel. The fading cuts and bruises on Angel and Spike's faces told their tale well, but Wesley realised instantly how much more horrific the injuries the two had inflicted on each other must have been considering the speed with which vampires healed, for them to still be visible several days later.

Cautiously approaching Angel in his office, Wesley had found the dark vampire in a deep, deep depression…

…a place Spike was now heading into at top speed as he sat over on the couch, his eyes averted, radiating thick waves of misery and rage.

_Continued in Chapter 3…_


	3. With Guilt, To Go

Disclaimer: Don't own, etc

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to _**_The Vampire in My Living Room_**_. Occurs around from _**_You're Welcome _**_to _**_Why We Fight, _**_but not down to the minute… Wherein things go from bad to worse, which doesn't really surprise us, does it? Rating T- M. _

**VAMPIRUS (NON) DOMESTICUS**

**Chapter 3 – With Guilt, To Go**

Contrary to his normal stoicism, Angel had opened up like a blossoming flower under Wesley's gentle questions, actually jumping up from behind his desk and pacing with agitation and distress…

"_Spike's more deserving of being the Shanshu Champion that I am." _

"_And you came by this epiphany how?"_

_But Angel wasn't listening, _"_Spike was right, I told him he wasn't but he was…and we both know it. I did make him a monster. That's why I can't stand having him around…Spike's my real son…Connor…"_

"_What happened?" Wesley brought him back, pretending not to hear that final mumbled name._

"_When Spike got made corporeal and everything went crazy. I didn't want to hear, I didn't want to listen to Eve, but she was right. She said that the problem was we were both heroes…She's right, Wes, the key word is 'Champion'. Eve said, "' Spike gave his life to save the world, so he has the cred'…"_

"_But he was killed, and as a ghost he couldn't effect any sort of outcome on the physical world, so reboot with one champion again." Wesley ascertained. "But then he was made corporeal again…so now all bets are off and we're back to square one." _

"_That's what Eve said, and that's why we needed you there." Angel gave a weak laugh, "It's taken you what –" he checked his watch – "all of thirty seconds. We took an hour and a half and three dead bodies to connect the dots. Spike came running out of this office saying that Harmony had gone crazy so he'd knocked her unconscious. I jeered at him, something like 'yeah, you're a real hero!' Of course like Eve came straight back at me with, _**_that's_**_ our problem."_

"_Then dear old Rutherford Sirk entered the mix." Wesley's voice was almost an Angelesque growl as he named the ex-Watcher who, prior to Rupert Giles and then Wesley himself, had been regarded as the greatest traitor to the Watchers Council ever; Sirk's perfidy in choosing to reign in hell by deserting the Council for Wolfram & Hart had sent shock-waves through the organisation that it hadn't still recovered from when Caleb blew it up – mostly because of the several priceless and irreplaceable scrolls that Sirk had stolen when he went, including the Shanshu Prophecy itself, before Angel had liberated it from the firm's vaults. Wesley hadn't been able to bring himself to sack the man because of guilt – firing Sirk for betraying the Watchers Council and joining Wolfram & Hart was just a bit too much pot & kettle when Wesley had just accepted the position of Head of Sirk's Department at the same firm!_

"_Yeah." Angel's tone carried much sheepishness at this point._

"_Sirk comes up with this Cup of Torment explanation from some conveniently just-translated passages of the Shanshu, and off you two hare in a race to be the first to drink it and prove which one of you is the real Champion of Light. I'd venture that Lindsay and Eve were probably counting on the fact that with me not around, nobody in the room had the knowledge to recognise the language in the book Sirk used to pull his little scam; it was probably a demon recipe book." He looked at Angel steadily, a definite hint of chilliness entering his tone. "For future reference: a) I don't relegate _**_anything_**_ that relates to the Shanshu to my subordinates, I handle it all _**_personally_**_, and b) in the event that I _**_had_**_ come across anything in the Shanshu that was of major import regarding your destiny, you would have known about it ten seconds after me. I certainly wouldn't have translated enough to wallpaper a cathedral and then not bothered to mention it while I went on vacation for a week!"_

"_Sorry…" Angel mumbled, "I wasn't thinking…we weren't thinking. Spike and me – we're like nitro and glycerine."_

"_So..?" Wesley prompted him, though in truth he was more worried about other possible consequences that he had no intention of flagging up to a clearly upset Angel, Spike, Gunn, Lorne, Fred and even Harmony. Like how the 'Cup of Torment' had cleverly removed _**_both_**_ Champions from Wolfram & Hart for some considerable time; easily long enough for someone or something to get inside during the mayhem and work some bad mojo? For instance, managing, even if only temporarily, to disconnect the conduit to the Senior Partners as Eve must have done to ensure Gunn couldn't consult the Big Cat and blow her and Lindsay's plan out of the water. What other ticking time bombs and primed booby traps could and probably had been left once the two people most likely to thwart them had been gotten out of the way? _

_Angel stared down at the polished surface of his desk, rubbing his fingers absently into the smooth surface where his reflection should have been, but wasn't. "The thing about Spike…he drives you crazy, but he…_**_sees_**_…you know. That's _**_his_**_ gift - he's got perfect clarity. Maybe it's the poet in him – he's never gonna be the IQ King, but he cuts right through the bull and the fancy words and the sophistry we try and swaddle ourselves in to make us feel better. He rips it all away and tells us: these are the home truths, people, now deal."_

"_And you think he was right about some of the things you two argued about before you got to the hair-pulling and handbags at ten paces?" Wesley had little compunction about revealing his view of the two Champions of Light beating the shit out of each other._

"_Spike was so angry…he taunted me about thinking: 'you're the big saviour', when I still can't 'lay flesh on a cross without smelling like bacon'. I told him he was no different…"_

_Wesley knew what was coming next, because Spike _**_was_**_ different, but before he could make some remark, Angel revealed that difference between the two ensoulled-vampires that Wesley had always been careful never to draw attention to._

"_It's just like Spike said: "'You had a soul forced on you as a _**_curse_**_…but me, I _**_fought_**_ for my soul. I went through the demon trials, almost did me in a dozen times over, but I kept fighting, 'cause I knew it was the right thing to do.'" He's right, Wes. I was an unapologetic monster – Angelus – I _**_revelled_**_ in what I was. Spike knew he was about to endure unimaginable pain and torture, but he did it anyway, and he did for the greatest and most powerful and most wonderful and terrible of all things -"_

"_- love." Wesley laid a hand on Angel's arm, feeling the muscles bunch and flex like tensile steel. _

"_Yeah…and that's not all…Spike believes I've sold out, Wesley…and what scares me most is that…I agree with him." _

"_Sold out?"_

"_This!" Angel waved a hand around his well-appointed office with the real leather and rare wood and priceless mystical ornaments. "The Shanshu mentions the vampire with a soul who will play a pivotal role in The Apocalypse – either for Good or Evil. He'll either save creation or destroy it; the kicker is nobody knows which side he'll be on till the deal goes down. Spike said everyone _**_knows_**_ what side I'm on because I've made my choice – 'you traded in your cape and tights for a nice comfy chair at Wolfram & Hart.' Is that what I've done Wesley, sold my soul to the Big Bad for no better reason than I was tired of always being David to Evil's Goliath? 'If you can't beat them, join them?'"_

"_No."_

"_How can you be sure of that?"_

"_Because if I believed that, I wouldn't be standing here… and on my way out to LAX, I would have left a little pile of Angel-dust on the carpet." _

_The vampire looked at him sharply, but seemed strangely reassured by Wesley's willingness to kill him for the greater good. "Thanks…I think. But what your…cyborg Roger said, about me being a puppet, and then Spike saying I'd sold out…I know, I shouldn't let it get to me. I really wish you'd been here, Wes."_

"_And what else?"_

"_Eh?"_

"_Angel, this is _**_me_**_, Swami to the Stars. What else happened between you two that's got you imitating a pretzel?"_

"_That wasn't enough?…Okay, okay…have you got any Rottweiller in you by any chance?" Angel stood up and stared out of the window, his face tightening until it seemed dangerously on the verge of going vamp. "Then Spike…"_

_Wesley listened, impressed in spite of himself as the tale unfolded; Spike was a formidable enough opponent in physical battle. He had killed two Slayers, and in their initial encounter Buffy would have been three for three had the late Joyce Summers not smashed Spike over the head with a fire extinguisher. From the look on Angel's face it was clear that when words were the weapons of choice, Spike rocked. But then, Spike could quote Pope at breakfast before a man had time to kick-start his brain with a decent Earl Grey. _

"_I know I haven't been…very nice…to Spike since he's been here-"_

"_No? Really?" Wesley coughed. "Sorry, couldn't resist."_

"_Try. We were going at it, really kicking the hell out of each other…I taught him everything he knows…" For an instant Angel drifted with almost a sort of pride, then brought himself back from the Angelus moment when he saw the unsubtle expression on Wesley's face. "He was…in such pain. You know, when you're in so much emotional agony that it has to become rage because nothing else can bear it without burning you up from the inside…" Angel's voice trailed off introspectively_

_Wesley carefully dropped his gaze so Angel couldn't see the look in his eyes; the two vampires understood that pain, but so did he, just another thing to thank dear old dad for. But neither Angel nor the others needed to know about the core of black ugliness than ran through 'good old Wes' like a vein of corrupting iron pyrite through gold._

"'_I'll tell you why you can't stand the bloody sight of me, 'cause every time you look at me, you see all the dirty little things I've done, all the lives I've taken…because of _**_you_**_._****_Drusilla sired me, but _**_you_**_ made me a monster.'" Angel quoted his grandson. _

"_What did you say?" Wesley asked._

"_I told him: 'I didn't make you, I just opened up the door and let the real you out.' Spike said, "'You never knew the real me; you were too busy trying to see your own reflection. I'm nothing like you.'" I said right, he was _**_less_**_ than me…that's why Buffy couldn't really love him…then things got really ungentlemanly."_

"_Of course, sound notion, _**_really_**_ piss off the super-human homicidal maniac who's _**_already_**_ kicking your ass."_

_Angel snorted. "I wasn't any better – believe me, at that moment, I was really channelling Angelus. But he was right, Wes, and we both know it, for all I denied it. Like Buffy once said to me: "'I can fool my friends, but I can't fool myself, or Spike, for some reason'". I told you – our blond bombshell has perfect clarity. Drusilla was psychic – in fact that helped me to drive her insane before I Sired her. She's lethal but limited; half the time she could only just feed herself and remember to stay out of sunlight. I was Spike's Sire in all the ways that _**_really_**_ mattered. A lot of the atrocities…he only thought of doing them in the first place because he knew I wanted to share my world with…a brother…a son…" _

"_How can you know that he was only trying to make you happy, instead of merely following his appetites?" Wesley challenged._

"_Because I told him so. The night Dru' Sired him, she brought him back to the Ambassador's suite where we were staying. The Master had summoned Darla and she'd gone to him in a snap. I was jealous so I'd tried to stop her going…big mistake…when Dru came back I looked like I'd gone ten rounds with a Bengal tiger and was feeling just about as sorry for myself. Then this nerdy kid with bad hair is standing behind her, looked like the lovechild of Queen Vic and Byron at his licentious worst. He had no idea what was going on…but I looked into his eyes…and I knew…I'd killed dozens of males, sired a couple…I Sired both James and Elizabeth, you know that?"_

"_Yes." Wesley had no interest in the dead vampires who had re-emerged in a most painful period of Angel's life, after Buffy had died to stop Glory, and before her resurrection at Willow's hand. _

"_But none of them had that spark I saw in William." Angel seemed not to notice his use of Spike's archaic human name. "None of them had that… 'je ne sais quoi'…except him. I didn't really realise until I hooked up with the Scoobies, after Buffy came to Sunnydale, just how rare that fire is. Buffy has it, so does Faith, but Kendra didn't, nor does Crazy Dana for all she's a Slayer. Giles has it, but none of the others – not Willow or Xander, not Oz, not even Cordelia; certainly not that Andrew geek who came to collect Dana. Lindsay didn't have it, nor did Doyle, not even Gunn…only you."_

"_I'd say thank-you but I don't think I should." Wesley retorted flippantly, to cover how easily Angel had pierced his protective layers and glimpsed that cold, dark river than ran through his heart, an icy, lifeless, utterly black and empty flow. Wesley knew all to well what the demons inside men – and women – like Angel and Spike and Darla, were tapping into and drawing strength from. Few had it, which was why the late, unlamented Holtz had been able to exterminate 378 vampires in nine years during his vengeance hunt for Angel and Darla, yet not be able to kill them._

"_The fire burns within," Angel said with a shrug. "It has no conscience or sentience or joy or remorse, it simply _**_is_**_. Whether you use the fire to increase the brightness of the Light or to stoke the fires of Evil is up to you…"_

"_But you told Spike..?" Wesley prompted when it seemed Angel was going to drift off into another reverie. _

"_He was uncertain…looking at Dru for a lead, which, as I could have told him…I grabbed his hand and held it out into the sunlight, burned him. He wrenched it away and his eyes went all sapphire and hot, like they do when he's mad, or really, really overjoyed. I said that having nothing but two women as travelling companions every night was getting a bit monotonous and though I liked the ladies…I said: 'Just lately, I've been wondering, what it'd be like…to share the slaughter of innocents…with another man. Don't think that makes me some kind of deviant, do you?'" Angel shook his head, "I was holding my hand out into the sun in some sort of macho posturing thing – it was killing me, I was just so pissed off about Darla leaving but the minute I looked into his eyes…He did no more and shoved his hand back into the sun like I was doing…I know it was a stupid macho thing -"_

"_I can still smell the testosterone." Wesley muttered sotto voce, momentarily forgetting the supernaturally enhanced hearing of vampires._

"_I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder or something, and I remember I said, 'You and me, we're going to be the best of friends'…and we were. I mean, it was me and Darla and then us two with Dru. Darla and Dru were…great…but - I don't know how to explain the way the four of us were together… I didn't need to _**_talk_**_ to Spike. We'd do something or I'd say something and he…"_

"_Just understood." Wesley interposed quietly._

"_Exactly. I never needed to _**_explain_**_ to him. There were things he just got; things he just knew, things that we shared in a way that Darla, as a woman, could never really share or even truly understand." _

Despite being aware that there was still something else Angel wasn't sharing, Wesley had left well enough alone at that point and gone looking for the English vampire. After an extensive search he had discovered him in a small, obviously forgotten office on the third floor, near Fred's lab. Considering how the Beast had slaughtered the entire former staff complement of Wolfram & Hart – with the exception of Lilah and Lindsay – there were still one or two vacant rooms. The office had clearly been that of some minor flunky because of its small size. There were still dusty spots but the bottle of Jack Daniels, small row of what seemed to be English Literature classics and tiny mini-bar type fridge showed that Spike had made it his own.

However, considering that he had _won_ Spike had been in a worse 'place' than Angel. Whereas the dark vampire had been despondently introspective, Spike had taken it to the next level. He had been in so complete an idiotropic state, Wesley had felt the first twinges of alarm as he saw how deeply turned in on himself Spike actually was. He made Angel's usual monosyllabic attitude seem positively garrulous. The fact that he had beaten Angel to the Cup of Perpetual Torment seemed to be the depths of failure, not the height of triumph to him. Wesley had probed but Spike had not reciprocated. However, what little he had admitted was telling:

"_So I'm standing there, and I've won, and Angel's saying to me about how the Cup's not a prize but a burden…and then he says: "'Do you really want it? Or is it that you want to take something away from me?'"_

"_What did you say?"_

"'_Bit of both'. Then I drank." Spike seemed to sink down into himself._

"_But you won…"_

"_No, I didn't. What I did was prove conclusively that Angel is the Champion of the Shanshu Prophecy, not me."_

"_Not quite seeing that…?" Wesley found some irony in the fact that he'd just come from Angel's office where the older vampire had expressed the same sentiments about Spike._

_Spike sighed. "Look, when I fought to get my soul back, I did it because I genuinely wanted the chance at redemption. I did it because I wanted to be worthy of Buffy's love, and because I really wanted to atone for all I'd done. And I did – I got fried saving the world, but when I was in that amulet…I wasn't aware…I was just…not. But I'd done it – I was a Champion of the Light. I was Buffy's Champion, and that was enough. This…I beat Angel to a bloody pulp, came within an inch of staking him, for God's sake, and for why…? What was my noble goal? My righteous reason? Angel was spot on – I didn't drink because I wanted another chance to be the Big Redeemed Hero, I did it because I wanted to take that chance away from Angel – in short I was a spoilt brat having a tantrum who takes his ball home out of spite so nobody else can play. Real noble, hero attitude, huh? I was redeemed – I saved the world, I passed go and collected two hundred dollars, even though it left me a ghost tied to haunting this heap. Angel's not yet had that opportunity, and Pouting Spiteful Me was determined not to give it to him."_

_Ah…major, major guilt-trip. "I think you're being too hard on yourself." Wesley opined cautiously. _

"_Really? I'd have thought you'd be outraged on behalf of your supposed best friend."_

"_Oh, what you did was certainly far from a penitent seeking redemption, definitely petulant, but Spike… if you'd really been that vindictively determined to ruin Angel's hope of redemption, you'd have condemned his soul to eternal suffering by staking him when you had the chance – but you didn't." Spike merely shrugged and Wesley went on, "You and Angel…it's complex and there are no easy answers. One thing I am sure of –" courtesy of the Scroll of Niamh – "is that you are _**_both_ **_Champions of the Light."_

"_Yeah, right."_

"_Yes, right. Redemption is not an exclusive country club that you have to be a super-rich, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant male to join, or a lottery than millions enter but only one person wins. Redemption is possible for anyone who really wants it, Spike, anyone who is remorseful enough and repentant enough to stay the distance through the not-very-fun period of usually painful atonement. Even if you aren't _**_the_**_ vampire with the soul that the Shanshu Prophecy talks about, you have just as much chance of salvation as Angel has, even if _**_he_**_ turns out not to be the vampire with the soul spoken of in Shanshu. Though the notion of a third vampire with a soul makes me break out in a cold sweat."_

Wesley had left Spike to chew on that while he went and found some pills for his nicely brewing migraine – note to self, never take a vacation again – but found the most illuminating conversation he had over the whole Cup of Perpetual Torment debacle came from none other than Charles Gunn, who sought him out as he was in his office. The black man had revealed what was still bothering Angel about the whole thing and rounded off what had happened for Wesley:

"…_So Angel's just sitting here, all beat up, with this biiig black cloud of gloom sat over his head, yah know?" Unconsciously Gunn dropped back into his previous speech rhythms, a sure sign of his agitation, "An' he says to me: " 'He beat me, Gunn. He beat me to the cup.'" I know Angel's been disconnected a little since we set up shop here, but…I admit it…I'm starting to worry. He was so cut up about what happened, even though the Cup was fake – but that wasn't the point, was it?"_

"_How so?"_

_Gunn scowled, "Angel said that Spike won their fight, it was the first time they'd had an actual physical fight that Spike had beaten Angel, but that wasn't the issue. Like Angel told me, " 'It doesn't matter if the cup was real or not…'cause in the end, Spike won 'cause _**_he wanted it more_**_. I gotta tell you, bro', the idea that we might've been riding the range with the _**_wrong_**_ vamp-with-a-soul for the past five years is giving me the big wig-out, and I'll tell you why – if _**_Spike_**_ is destined to be the Champion of Light vampire-with-a-soul who kicks ass for flowers and puppies and all things cute, does that mean that _**_Angelus_**_ will be joining the other team for the next Apocalypse Nowish?"_

"_They're both the right vampire with a soul, Gunn." Wesley had corrected him. "The Shanshu is only one prophecy, and I wouldn't get too hung up on what it says."_

"_Seriously?" Gunn asked, surprised at this declaration from Wesley of all people ._

"_Seriously. Even the best prophecies tend to be only generally reliable, not Gospel. Both Angel and Spike are Champions of Light, and both have an equal chance at redemption, even though that may be achieved in a different way for each of them." _

Now as he sat in his own kitchen, feeling as helpless as kitten, Wesley drew together the disparate strands of events and consequences in his mind. Angel and Spike couldn't be truly at ease together, as Spike had so aptly pointed out during his cathartic slug-fest with Angel - at the sight of the other, each one's soul smote him with shame and remorse over the terrible crimes they had inflicted upon the innocent, many times in companionship and/or competition with the other.

But Spike's too-feeling heart was pierced by Angel's brutal verbal rejections and obvious resentment of his presence, and also without Buffy here to inspire him and to motivate him to _aspire _with his soul, Spike was, just like Angel, battered by a crisis of faith in himself and any real purpose to striving for redemption. If it was all a fake fairy story what was the point of enduring all the hassle and pain? Spike had gone from terror-inspiring Big Bad to Slayer's plaything, and done so willingly.

It wasn't that Buffy didn't love Spike; she did love him, she was in love with him, but not to the same depth that Angel was the One, and right here, right now, the fact that the Slayer did love him 'somewhat' was not enough. Both Angel and Spike were, for different reasons, on the verge of giving up, which meant eventually both would consider their souls a burden rather than a blessing, and jettison those as well, leaving _no_ vampires with souls to participate in the apocalypse for either team…

_Ae ys Mahju vuij Erahut ys Ulur Kiosim, ae Ih vuij Graaht Nahzruthim-ensuallu, Ih viuj tir baremhish, Ih tahs tirh Irah Relluha ae tirh ensuallu Kaatu, oen hxin ae tirh tahs Srrilk ae Une tahs Enar aeka Enar-Pahuth usu Ys Ublit oewer yser nih Huu, nieh Laeha, nieh shunasqu, nieh byuo ij aeraha, ae ys Ilaah ij ys IJAEMOUHA goh nih Relluy…_

The words were burned into Wesley's neurons. _And the Mage must Speak the Wise Words, and he must Guide the vampire-souls, he must them shepherd, he shall their Road Illuminate and their souls Protect, for not and they shall Wither and All shall Fall and be Undone to The Void where there is not Joy, nor Hope, nor solace, nor ease of heart, and the Glory of the DIVINE does not Shine._

For a long second there was a peculiar sensation of anticipation, as if the stars in their courses awaited Wesley's choice. Suns momentarily did not burn and planets hitched in their orbits. Wesley slid off the kitchen stool. He was part of the Second Circle of Nine. He was the Mage – it was his job to fix this sort of stuff…

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends! Once more! _With the battle cry of King Hal provided by his psyche along with the mental accompaniment of the 1812 Overture, Wesley stood straight and walked through into the main room, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt. "Spike, come here."

The blond vampire finally looked up at his emotionless tone, his unfocussed blue gaze snapping back to reality as Wesley reached the third button of his shirt. He blinked nervously, and straightened up from his slouch. "Er…look, mate…er…not that I don't…I mean…Angel…I…and you're…well, not bad in the looks department…but…er…well, I'm not really in a good place right now –"

"_Spike._ I'm offering you _dinner_, not sex."

"_Ohthankgod._" Spike coughed to cover the overloud exclamation but then stood up himself, his eyes hardening. "Look, appreciate the gesture an' all, must have taken guts I'd wager, but let's just can the pity-party and go to bed…separately, I mean, hey?"

"When was the last time you ate?" Challenged Wesley, ignoring his nervous babble.

"Uh- Wednesday!" Spike's tone was redolent with indignant defiance, "Look I don't have to report my every move to you –"

"Liar."

"What?"

"I said liar. Speaker of untruth, great big fibber, if you will."

"Watch it you ponce or –"

"You'll scowl at me really hard?" Wesley shot back. "Look, it's cold standing here with my chest hanging out and I feel completely ridiculous as well. You can have a couple of pints. I've fed Angel, it's not that big a deal, so stop having a panic attack." In actual fact offering his wrist to his then very much ex-friend had been a _huge_ deal, but red-hot pokers, bathtubs full of cockroaches and a room full of angry Ethros demons wouldn't have got Wesley to admit that.

"You fed Angel?" That cut through the hyperventilation fast enough. "I- No. I can't."

"Why?" Wesley maintained the attitude of exasperated impatience because that way he could not think about what he was really doing.

"I just can't."

"Oh for God's sake get over yourself –"

"You don't understand. I _can't_."

"Spike, you're nearly a hundred and fifty years old, and now you're suddenly squeamish?"

Spike raised a hand and raked it through his hair. "Don't be a wanker, of course not! I mean…Wesley, I'm a _vampire_."

"Yes, got that, pretty much the reason I'm offering you two pints of my personal haemoglobin here."

"That's what I mean." Spike dropped his eyes to the floor. "Look, vampires either _kill_ when we feed or Sire the victim. What I'm trying to say here is that delicate table manners and finesse don't come into it. We're talking gobs of gore, tearing flesh and major blood-spatter patterns. It's not that I _can't_ bite you, I don't know _how_ to feed without making your neck look like raw sausage meat."

"You do it very, very carefully." Wesley replied. "Look Spike, you can't go to the blood banks again. Sooner or later Henrik will recover his bravado, or else someone very like him will again decide that going up against a vampire with a soul means the odds are weighted in his favour - and you end up a little pile of dust in some skanky LA back alley. Plus the longer you go without feeding, the closer the demon rises to the surface and the greater its chance of overpowering your soul when you're faced with the temptation to feed off an innocent. The instant that happens, _boom_ goes your soul and with it any chance for you to earn your redemption. Do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars. Is your ego really worth risking that?"

"No." Spike admitted quietly.

"Look, think 'tentative'. Pretend you're a giant trying to pick up a bone china coffee cup and just _do _it."

"Tentative. You're not joking," muttered Spike.

Taking a deep but unnecessary breath of air, Spike stepped forward and placed his hands on Wesley's shoulders at the top of his arms, tightening his grip as if afraid Wesley was suddenly going to wrench himself free and make like the Roadrunner.

It was a thought, certainly. Wesley was acutely aware of his entire body, every single atom, as he remained as still as if carved from stone and by sheer willpower alone forced his heart to maintain a reasonably steady _dub-dub-dub_ instead of the galloping steeplechase _dubbadubbadubbadub_ the organ wanted to start. Inching his head forward like a tortoise peeking out of it's protective shell, Spike tilted his head on one side and very delicately pressed his upper and lower fangs into the right side of Wesley's neck at the jugular; instead of biting, he simply let his incisors sink into flesh as he merely relaxed his jaw muscles as if just closing his mouth.

Hot and sour with that intoxicating tart metallic tang, Wesley's blood flowed like sweet wine into Spike's mouth, his starving frame absorbing the warm nourishment like a fragile rose blooming under the sun. It was like wild honey, bitter hot chocolate, fine cognac. His fingers flexed and tightened as he fed, Wesley's unique body scent of male musk and sandalwood and lemon mixing with the sweet taste of the blood. _Food. Thick. Hot. Sweet. Prey…Mine. _Spike's low growl of delight echoed around the apartment -

And brought him back to himself. Wesley remained stock still in his grasp, though his heart rate was now greatly accelerated. Wesley's muscles were hard and fluid under Spike's hands, but the human wasn't born that was a match for the physical strength of a vampire. It took a worrying amount of strength to get his hands to loosen their grip and slide away as Wesley took a step back out of Spike's personal space.

Wesley pushed his spectacles back up his nose and then he buttoned up his shirt with speed but no fumbling. "Well, embarrassing but certainly doable. I'll see you in the morning, don't have _Passions_ on too loud."

Sinking down onto the couch as Wesley turned and without further fuss made his way up to bed, Spike was grateful as never before for his nation's trait of the Stiff Upper Lip. _Nobody can beat us when it comes to tying to ourselves into pretzels in order to avoid Making A Scene. Giles would be proud. _As long as he and Wesley both continued to studiously ignore what they were doing, things should be fine…who said ostriches had the wrong idea?

The blond vampire was so perturbed as he focussed determinedly on the TV programme he wasn't really watching that not even his mystically enhanced senses detected the intruder watching from the sky light above despite his somewhat rapid breathing, having made it to the roof – fortunately – a good minute too late to witness Spike feeding.

The man didn't make the mistake of staring down at the two occupants of the apartment, for those in dangerous occupations often had a sixth sense about when they were being watched and being fully human he had no super-back-up weaponry other than his gun. Scaling the wall of the block to the roof had been long, slow and difficult but the building's internal security was good enough to preclude getting in under all the usual pretexts, such as pretending to respond to a phone fault/gas leak. The block also had mystical wards to prevent any Big Bad successfully teleporting inside the building or opening a portal within it. So it had been an hour's hard toil to get up onto the roof. Wyndham-Pryce's corner apartment having panoramic view windows had also not made things easier; traversing them had him in a cold sweat as, had the guy returned at the wrong time, the first thing he would have seen was a Ninja-dressed dude making like a giant spider on the outside of his panes.

Despite the arduous climb to get up here for what amounted to basically just ten minutes of eyeballing what was happening inside, the man grinned to himself. Getting paid twice for the same job made him remarkably cheery about the inconveniences. Carefully looking down again, the man drew a mistaken but understandable conclusion from the fact that the huge apartment nevertheless only had one bed, whose occupant had to be Wyndham-Pryce, since he was the brunette. For a moment the man wondered if he should try to take a photograph of the younger bleach-blond man watching TV then decided against it – it would be difficult from this angle above, plus all this panoramic-view glass increased the chance of a camera's flash reflecting and drawing the attention of the blond.

Easing away from the skylight, the man prepared to make his way down again; not having used special equipment but only his eyes, he had no way of knowing that while the bed's occupant would have registered a temperature of 98.6°, the blond's barely 22° indicated that something was definitely awry. Instead he grinned as he thought of how he was going to report to his two employers without each finding out that the other had hired him…

…

© 2004, C. D. Stewart

The quotes on page 2 and 7 are taken directly from **_Buffy The Vampire Slayer_**, Season 7 episode, **_Touched_, **as reproduced in **_The Quotable Slayer_** by Micol Ostow and Steven Brezenoff, page 17.

The dialogue for the exchanges on pages 8-15 were drawn from **_Angel_**, Season 5 episodes **_Lineage_** and **_Destiny_**.


End file.
